The Wolf Cub

by David Pilling

  To make things worse, the frightened monks insisted on keeping up their dreary prayers and plainchant all through the hours of darkness, beseeching Almighty God to have pity on them - only them, you understand, not the poor citizens of Caen who were the real targets of the bombardment.

  Sir James might have ordered them to be quiet, but he was a devout man, and found comfort in the sound of their voices lifted in prayer. I recall sitting with my back against one of the mighty pillars in the nave, red-eyed and befuddled through lack of sleep. Sir James and a few of the more pious members of our company knelt before the altar in a row, their heads bent and hands crossed, helmets and swords laid aside on the flagstones.

  The fat abbé moved among them, mumbling pompously in Latin and making the sign of the cross over each man, while behind him a pack of monks made the church hideous with their noise. I thought they looked like so many overweight crows in their black robes. The dismal chanting was echoed by the boom of artillery fire as the world outside dissolved in smoke and flame.

  Brother Christopher once again demonstrated his knack for sniffing me out, no matter where I tried to hide. “Many of your comrades are being shriven,” he said, nodding at the men who knelt before the altar, “the abbé has repeated the pater, the ave and the credo to them. In the name of Christ and His infinite mercy, will you not lay aside your blasphemous pride, and do the same?”

  I looked up at him in surprise. There was unusual force in his voice, with none of the begging and wheedling tone that made him so contemptible.

  “Very well,” I replied, “will you do the honours? I don’t relish the thought of that fat toad muttering over me.”

  Christopher’s sallow cheeks flushed, and he wrung his hands. “Certainly,” he said, after a nervous glance at his abbé, “if you wish it.”

  He seemed both confused and flattered at my request. In that moment I pitied him, and the way he crept through his miserable life, despised by all. I had noticed how even his fellow monks shunned his company.

  “Come, then,” I said briskly, kneeling upright before him and clasping my hands in prayer, “save me from the fire.”

  The damp heel of his hand trembled as he laid it gently against my brow, and let it rest there for longer than necessary.

  Frowning, I looked up and met his eyes. There was a desperate yearning in them, craving and sadness and desolation, and for the first time I understood Brother Christopher’s true nature.

  Here was the reason he dogged my steps. I realised it, and slowly closed my hand over his.

  “Some of us,” I whispered, “must live in fear, and hide our true natures from the world. You cannot hide from God.”

  He tried to clasp my hand in both of his.

  “No,” I said, pulling away, “that’s enough. You must not follow me any longer.”

  I stood up and walked away.

  “You must be shriven!” he moaned.

  I carried on walking. It was not in my power or nature to comfort him.

  The next day Henry ordered another assault on Caen. He had already tried several against the western defences of the town. All had failed. The French garrison fought with bitter and unexpected courage, and the King was losing patience.

  Now it was our turn to be hurled into the fray, though Sir James didn’t confirm the order until dawn.

  He sent his under-officers to summon the entire company to the inner precinct of the monastery, where we stood in ranks while he trotted up and down before us on his dappled grey charger.

  My bowels quaked as he told us what lay ahead in a voice like a trumpet, loud and brazen and piercing.

  “The French have stiff necks, lads,” he cried, “we’ve given their walls a proper hammering, but still they refuse to yield the town. His Majesty has decided to teach these traitors a lesson.”

  To King Henry, the citizens of Caen were guilty of treason against their rightful monarch: he saw himself as the true King of France as well as England, thanks to the blood-claim he inherited from his forebears. It was to pursue his rights as he saw them, rather than the achievement of empty glory, that he invaded French soil.

  “For the duration of the siege, the King has decided to repeal his own laws,” Sir James boomed, “when Caen falls, as it must, our soldiers are free to pillage the town at will. The French will learn the price of defying their liege lord.”

  There was some shifting and whispering in the ranks. Sir James waited patiently for it to die down, his harsh features softened into a smile. He had seen plenty of towns given over to the sack in his time, and knew how soldiers relished the opportunity to run wild.

  We marched out on foot, with Sir James at our head. Doubtless the monks weren’t sorry to see us go, though we had held to our promise and left their wealth and ornaments untouched.

  I was in the rear rank, and turned my head to get one final look at the monastery. For a brief second I thought a pale face peered sadly at me from one of the high windows. Then it was gone.

  God knows what became of Brother Christopher. I hope he left the brethren, and found some kind of happiness. It seems doubtful. He lacked the strength of will, and was one of the millions of lost souls who prefer to choose security over fulfilment.

  Our company tramped over the fields towards the eastern wall of Caen. The battlements rose before us, grey and gaunt, buttressed by five strong towers. To the south lay the River Odon, which effectively cut the town in half, dividing it between the old quarter and the new, called the Ile Saint Jean.

  The halves were joined in the middle by an island, upon which stood a gatehouse that connected the northern and southern ramparts. Our guns had concentrated on the gatehouse, which stood exposed to their fire, and punched ragged holes in the masonry of the upper wall.

  Still, the French flag flew bravely from the battlements, and the towers of the eastern wall that enclosed the old quarter. The Earl of Warwick, encamped on the southern bank of the Odon, had spent the best part of two weeks pounding the defences, and the stonework bore the marks of the endless hail of shot his guns had spat at Caen. The French did their best to repair the damage, feverishly propping up the sagging walls with heaps of soil and rubble.

  While our artillery wreaked havoc above ground, our sappers dug beneath to undermine the foundations of the defences. The French used an ingenious method to detect the mines: they balanced vases full of water on the walls, and if the water began to ripple, knew our moles were at work directly under them. They dug counter-mines to meet ours, and vicious combats were fought in the stifling heat and darkness under the earth.

  We made siege ladders, and a number of wooden towers on rollers. These were three storeys high, with slits in the walls of the lower platform for crossbowmen to shoot through. Meanwhile storming parties waited on the upper levels for the bridge to be unfastened and dropped down onto the battlements.

  I quailed at the thought of charging across the narrow plank bridge, high, high above the ground. At the far end a cluster of French pikes would wait for me, with the option of a sheer drop to my left and right.

  Thankfully our men were sent to the ladders, which lay ready for us in neat rows on the grass. There was no moat around the wall of the old quarter, only a shallow ditch, hastily dug from the looks of it.

  The sun beat down mercilessly as we filed onto the field in disciplined silence. Drums, fifes and trumpets announced the arrival of more English troops, company after company of archers and men-at-arms, marching under the banners of Lord Maltravers, Sir John de Grey, Sir John Cornwall, the Earls of Huntingdon and Salisbury, and others that have slipped my aged memory.

  My belly still griped with fear and hunger. We had eaten no breakfast, but that was soon remedied as servants and pot-boys passed among our ranks, ladling out bowls of steaming porridge. There was wine also, half a pint per man, coarse stuff, yet strong and hot enough to make my head spin.

  “Drink deep, lads,” cried Sir James, “it will stiffen your courage, and dull the pain of F
rench spears.”

  Henry would not send men into action with empty stomachs. Nor did he want us to be too sober. Even the bravest man appreciates a stiff dose of alcohol before risking his skin.

  I tailed on to the end of a ladder. They were some thirty feet long, tall enough to reach the battlements of Caen, and required four men apiece to carry.

  A heavy silence rolled across the field. It lasted only seconds before the war-yells rose and the trumpets screeched, but I remember it as a blessed interlude before the storm. I had time to mutter a quick prayer and touch the scarf about my neck for luck.

  “Forward,” shouted the officers and marshals, “in the name of God, King Harry and Saint George!”

  We started to jog forward. A few paces on, and we came within range of the archers and crossbowmen on the walls. There were a few arquebusiers among them, and a hail of arrows and darts flew about our heads, sprinkled with lead bullets.

  Our own archers, protected by wooden mantlets and pavises, tried to cover the advance of the men-at-arms. They drew and shot as fast as they were able, trying to shoot the French marksmen off the walls or force them to keep their heads down.

  It was my first time in action, real action. I don’t remember being frightened. My heart beat so fast it threatened to burst through my chest, and sheer excitement drowned the natural instinct for survival.

  My companions quickened their step. Someone screamed behind me, a high-pitched squeal of pain that cut through the massed roar of our troops as they swarmed towards the walls.

  I kept my head down against the storm of missiles. My bascinet had no visor, and one stray glance upwards might have proved fatal. My breath came in short gasps as we stumbled over the rough ground. The ladder seemed to get heavier. More shrieks of pain exploded around me. The French had a number of small cannon mounted on the towers, as well as catapults and springalds, and the boom of gunfire added to the chaos.

  The man in front of me fell, swatted to the ground by a well-aimed shot from a springald. An iron-tipped bolt the length of a javelin had skewered him, pierced the breast of his padded jack and thrust clean through his spine.

  “On!” shouted the sergeant at our head, “just a few paces more, lads!”

  We stumbled forward and reached the foot of the wall. The three of us put our shoulders to the ladder and heaved it up against the rough stonework.

  “Who’s the first man to the top?” cried the sergeant, and gave me a hideous wink. Then his entire head vanished under a torrent of steaming oil poured from above.

  His shriek, as the oil seared and melted his flesh, was inhuman. I staggered back in horror, throwing up my gauntleted hands for protection as drops of the stuff splashed my armour.

  “Goddam!” I heard a woman’s voice yell, “goddam!”

  Goddam. This was the first time I heard it, the popular French curse for all Englishmen. Foolishly, I looked up and spied a woman in a red shawl on the parapet directly over our heads. She had a mane of greasy black curls, and shook her grimy fist at us in triumph. It was she, and another woman, who had upturned the pannier of oil onto my comrade’s head.

  “I’ll murder those sluts,” growled one of my comrades. He drew his falchion, sprang onto the ladder and clambered upwards with furious haste, careless of the stones and arrows that rained down about him.

  I hesitated. The initial rush of excitement had passed, and I am not ashamed to admit my courage faltered. In front of me, not two yards away, the dying sergeant writhed horribly. His screams had faded away, replaced by pathetic whimpers as he clawed at the mottled ruin of his face.

  There was nothing I could do for him, save the mercy of a quick death. I drew the longer of my daggers, knelt beside him and rammed the blade into the side of his neck, then yanked it outwards, splitting his throat.

  He gave one last shudder, his eyes bulging, and went still. His was the third death on my account, and the most blameless.

  “A Harrington! A Harrington! Saint George!”

  Fresh bodies stampeded past me and hurled themselves up the ladder. I crawled out of their path and pressed my back against the masonry of the wall, thinking I might be safe there for a time.

  Sir James and his son Richard were nearby, urging on their men. My captain’s face was red and swollen with angry blood as he brandished his sword, clearly desperate to carve a few French skulls.

  He was a bold man, no doubt of that. Too bold. With a final oath, he ripped his standard from the hands of the young esquire who held it and hurled himself at one of the ladders. His son, just as burly though not quite so rash, tried to drag him back.

  “Damn you, boy!” I heard Sir James shout, shoving Richard away with his free hand, “when did you know me to hide in battle? Shall I stand and watch while our fellows are slaughtered?”

  The rickety ladder trembled as he clambered up the rungs. Sword in one hand, he used the other to climb, with the pole of the standard balanced across his shoulders.

  His example lit fresh fires inside his men, myself included. Renewed cries of “Saint George!” burst around me as I pushed away from the wall and ran to the ladder.

  The cries suddenly faded, and something glanced off my helmet. I looked down and saw it was Sir James’ sword.

  His body followed, toppling backwards off the lower reaches of the ladder into the arms of his son and three men-at-arms. Like me, he had no visor, and a crossbow bolt had impaled his right eye.

  Fate chose this moment, as so often in my life, to grant me an opportunity. Sir James’ standard dropped from his slackened fingers and fluttered to the ground. By rights his son should have snatched it up, but Richard stood paralysed, his face drained of blood as he stared at his dead father.

  Instinct, rather than courage or a vain desire to play the hero, drove me to grab the standard and carry it up the ladder.

  Sheer idiocy, considering what I had just witnessed. When I was halfway up, and come to no harm, I risked a glance at the battlements.

  The woman in the shawl and her companion had vanished, replaced by a French crossbowman, perhaps the one who had shot Sir James. He was busy fumbling another bolt into the groove, and only saw me when I was almost at the top.

  He had no time to reload, and raised his crossbow above his head to use as a club. Two grey-feathered arrows slammed into his chest and neck and pitched him off the walkway. Cheers sounded below, and my ladder bounced and shuddered under the weight of more bodies.

  I scrambled up the last few rungs and heaved myself over the parapet, to find the French in retreat. They quit the walls and fled into the town as our men surged over the walls.

  By great good fortune, I was one of the first Englishmen over the wall. I made the most of it, brandishing Sir James’ standard and roaring “Saint George! God for King Harry and Saint George!” until my throat was raw.

  The defences were overrun, and Caen lay wide open for the sack.

  13.

  I handed over the standard to Sir James’ esquire and made my way down into the streets. The crash of church bells sounded through the town, warning the citizens of the coming storm.

  My first thought was to find a place to hide until the worst was over. It sounds ironic, from one who later grew rich in the Italian wars, but at that time I had no interest in robbing defenceless citizens and plundering their houses. Many of our men, from the highest noble to the lowliest archer, went to France for exactly that purpose. I, on the other hand, was more concerned with making my reputation than a fortune.

  There was a church to my left, and directly in front of me a wide street that cut through the old quarter. Before I could see any more a rough hand shoved me headlong into a pile of refuse.

  “Mind where you stand, soldier!” shouted an English voice. I turned over, groaning and spattered with dirt, just as a file of archers charged past. They were eager as hounds at the kill, eyes aflame with bloodlust, falchions and hatchets ready to hand.

  While I picked myself up, they set about break
ing into the nearest house. The residents had locked and barred the door on the inside and closed the shutters on the windows. Two of the archers started hacking at the shutters, while their comrades beat and hammered on the door.

  “Open up, Frenchies!” they howled, “open up if you value your lives!”

  The people inside were dead, whatever they did. The archers would dash the heads of their children against the walls, butcher the menfolk and rape the women before slitting their throats. I have witnessed the same atrocities repeated countless times, all over Christendom and beyond. The wrath of the soldier is a terrible thing, and can only be slaked by blood and gold.

  I staggered further up the street in search of refuge. Our troops were swarming through the old quarter now, and met with little resistance as the survivors of the garrison retreated to the castle. The noise was deafening: church bells mixed with the shrieks of women and children, trumpets blasting a host of conflicting orders, the deep-throated roars and curses of our men as they set about their murderous work.

  A few of the braver citizens had thrown up a makeshift barricade at a crossroads near the far end of the street. It was a pathetic, ramshackle heap of upturned furniture and bits of rubbish, behind which maybe a score of men and women huddled, urged on by a fat burgher with a heavy silver chain about his neck.

  I found a side-alley and watched from the shadows while Sir Richard Harrington led his knights against the barricade. The death of his father had driven the young man into a frenzy, and he paid no heed to the arrows bouncing off his armour as he smashed the fragile heap of timber to bits with his pole-axe. I winced as the burgher stepped forward to block his path and jabbed clumsily at Sir Richard’s helm with a rusted spear.

  The pole-axe is a difficult weapon, and requires a strong man with years of training to wield it effectively. Sir Richard swung his with furious skill, as though it weighed no more than a reed. He dashed aside the trembling spear and drove the spike on the butt of his weapon into the burgher’s foot. Even as the hapless Frenchman opened his mouth to scream, the axe whirled in a lethal arc and swapped off his head.